


Equilibrium

by Twig



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:53:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twig/pseuds/Twig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He never could reconcile John Cena, the guy he likes, and John Cena, Personification of Everything He Hates."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equilibrium

**Author's Note:**

> Continuity: WWE, mid-May 2013  
> Context: Punk exits TV post-Wrestlemania 29 defeat by the Undertaker. Non-kayfabe reason being to heal up injuries. Dirtsheets speculate that it's also burnout and friction with creative.

Even on his best of days, Punk is at least a quarter cranky bastard and a third moody asshole. Add a few cups of resentment and a couple tablespoons of disgruntlement, and he's a veritable pound cake of surl. Speaking of baking metaphors, he pops a vegan chocolate chip cookie into his mouth. Amy baked him a batch while she was here last. This is why Amy is always objectively the best. 

Sucks, of course, that she's not here. 

John fucking Cena is instead. 

Punk stews in sullen silence on his couch, but Cena is an ocean of nonchalance, watching TV like they're actually watching TV. Then again, it's Cena. He probably _is_ watching TV, none the wiser, while Punk mulls and broods. 

"You're thinking at me." 

Okay, so Cena can be astute sometimes. 

"What are you even doing here?" Punk hurls the question like an accusation. It whizzes by Cena like a pop fly he can't be bothered to catch. 

"You let me in." 

Punk huffs. "Are you for real?" 

Cena gives him a look, then sighs. "I wanted to see how you were doing." 

John's sincerity is like a poison sting, his personal Kryptonite. 

"So I'm fine, case closed, Dr. Cena can go." 

Cena faintly smirks. "My Ph.D.'s in Thuganomics, not clinical psychology." 

Punk drops his face into his hand. "I really don't want to do this with you right now, John." 

"But you let me in." 

Punk drops his hand in a hurry and glares. "What the fuck else am I supposed to do when you show up at my door? Slam it in your face?" 

"Not like you haven't done that before." 

Cena's in the armchair, Punk suddenly realizes. Cena's in the armchair while he's on the couch. It really is like some fucked up therapy session, and that strickens Punk more than he wants to admit. John Cena, serene-faced like a therapist. Detached and impassive. Professional. 

Poll any five person in the company right now for their top three adjectives to describe John Cena, and Punk bets a year's pay that every single one would have "professional" on their list. 

John Cena: professional wrestler. Professional athlete, professional company man, professional human being. 

"I'm pretty sure you should be anywhere but here," Punk finally manages to say. 

"Like where?" 

Punk snorts. "House show? Production meeting? Love chats with Vince?"

"Nope, just wanna be here." 

Punk cringes. For all of Cena's sincerity, sometimes he can deliver lines like he's trapped in a bad romcom. 

"You think I'm shitting you?" 

"No, John, I think it's just a little fucking weird for you to drop by." 

"Why?" 

Punk grimaces. "Haven't we, you know, moved on?" 

Something maybe sort of crosses John's expression. Punk hates how much he wants to tear that nanosecond apart. 

"Have we?" 

It's more of a legitimate question than Punk would like to entertain. Their... _thing_ is more off than on most of the time, except for the times when they're more on than off, for questionable values of "on." Basically they're the definition of "it's complicated" on Facebook, and wow he did not just compare their shit to Facebook drama. 

Amy would laugh her fucking ass off right now. 

"I got Amy," Punk settles to answer. 

"And I have Nikki, so what?" 

At the mention of Nikki's name, Punk can't help a snort. Cena gives him a chastening look. 

"Nikki's a sweeter person than anybody gives her credit for. Like you." 

Punk rolls his eyes. "Really now, John. You're gonna compare the girl you're dating to the guy you're not fucking." 

"Just calling it how I see it." 

"How would _she_ call it? You and me."

The question is meant to goad, but the answer is matter of fact. 

"Hot." 

Punk shakes the incredulity and snaps, "What do you want from me?"

"I miss you and I want to see you, is that really so hard to believe?"

That fucking sincerity again, but damn sincerity when it's the only thing there is. Punk stares at Cena, all manners of words pent up in his throat, burning him up, choked and jagged. He knows how to cut; it's his gift. He doesn't believe in shutting up when he's got something to say, yet he clamps his jaw tight. Cena must see it, because he leans forward, knows better to try and touch, but he stares right back like he's not afraid. 

"Yeah," Punk finally whispers, that single word lacerating its way from his gut all the way to the tip of his tongue. Just one word, and it's far more confession than he can bear. He looks away. That's why he misses it when Cena gets up, grabs both his hands and yanks him to his feet. John kisses him, soft, but Punk shoves him back, a sudden disgust rolling over him so fast, so furiously that he's dizzy with it. 

He's home because he's injured. He's home because he's sick. Heartsick. "We got nothing for you right now, Punk." "That's not a good idea right now, Punk." "I think we should hold off on that, Punk." And he wanted to put his hand through drywall, 'cause it was like 434 days of carrying the company got wiped off the books and he was back to square one. Now, in his own goddamn house, standing in front of him, is the man who is his professional nemesis and his heart's desire all rolled up into one. 

He never could reconcile John Cena, the guy he likes, and John Cena, Personification of Everything He Hates. It'd be easier if John were a lazy fuck, a total hack, except he's not. There's so much that shines in Cena, and he sees it, he really does, fuck the smarks and all the haters. Which only makes it worse. Worse when Cena toes the company line like the lamest fucking tool on the planet, when Cena takes his script and dutifully plays his role and shuts his hole, and it all pays off. While Punk bitches and wants the fucking best and yet he gets shut down again and again and gets told that he's difficult, like he's the Ed Norton of the WWE. 

He can't look at John and not be resentful, just a little bit, just a whole hell of a lot. True friendship is forgiving their success and maybe that's why they're not friends, not really. John's never his first phone call or even his last. There's so much shit he can't really talk to Cena about, not when he wants somebody to _get_ it like instinct, but that doesn't mean he doesn't _long_ for it anyway. 

That doesn't mean he can shove John away and not want to yank him right back in at the same time. 

And he does. Yank Cena in so hard that their mouths collide rather than kiss, like a headbutt out of a chokehold. Even as he bruises Cena's mouth with his own, his hands are on Cena's chest like he's ready to push away again at a heartbeat's notice. Cena, though, wraps his fingers around his wrists, not some sort of beseeching gesture, but a calming one. Punk hates it, because the John Cena who takes Vince's shit is the John Cena who takes Punk's shit with the same professional courtesy. 

Punk thinks too much, feels too much, _cares_ too much. Rips himself open before John yet John won't reach into his guts and squeeze. Cena thinks, too. He knows this. Cena thinks and feels and cares, yet sometimes all Punk sees is inscrutable blue eyes and an implacable expression. Nothing fazes John fucking Cena, and Punk wants to crack his fist against the chiseled jawline until it breaks and breaks and breaks and maybe, just maybe, there's something real underneath. 

He twists his wrists in Cena's grip even as Cena holds on tight, tighter. They're not really fighting; they've never fought for real. But Cena's the wall he's putting his fists against. Sometimes Punk thinks he fights just to feel the resistance, like some kind of masochist. But aren't all wrestlers masochists, to love the pain and the frustration and then come back for more. 

John kisses him again, and this time it _is_ beseeching, trying to pacify him, but Punk won't be quieted, won't be settled, won't be coddled and soothed. He doesn't want wet raspberries on his belly, playful smacks to his ass, juvenile dick jokes in a lover's whisper in his ear. He wants some goddamn ugliness from John, the kind of ugliness that comes from, well, that comes from being _in love_. The visceral stuff, not patience and understanding when things are bad, not playfulness bordering on childishness when things are good. 

"Punk." 

Punk is struggling and he doesn't even know against what anymore. John the idea, John his nemesis, maybe not even really John at all. 

"Stop fighting me, Punk." 

Punk oofs, shoved back onto the couch. He blinks to find Cena on top of him, pinning his wrists down, staring down at him. 

"Stop, Phil. Just stop." 

And Punk stops. He stops and closes his eyes and holds his breath as Cena relinquishes his wrists to cradle his face then kiss him. Softly, over and over, each kiss like drops of rain upon a parched desert. 

Slowly, Punk exhales. 

This is the irony of his life. Only someone like Cena, the most placid man on earth, can deal with a temperamental fucker like him. Even Amy throws up her hands and ditches his sorry ass when he's at his worst 'cause she's actually got some self-preservation instincts. John, though... John apparently hasn't got a lick of sense. 

"Thanks, I guess," Punk finally murmurs. 

"Sometimes it's not about what you want, young grasshopper, but what you need." 

"... Are you fucking serious right now?" 

John only laughs, lifts Punk's shirt and blows a raspberry on his belly. Then he's re-plopped himself on the couch, with Punk's legs on his lap. 

Punk stares at Cena for a good moment, and John looks unfazed, like none of that just happened. Typical. And just as well. Rather than mull over it, Punk settles into a comfortable stretch on the couch and turns his head toward the TV. He doesn't think about anything but John's hand, light but so surely there, on his knee.


End file.
